The Box
by puffsofclouds
Summary: A story that contains many romantic twists and one special box...


**Hi this is my first FanFiction! Hope you all enjoy it! Please R&R! **

**Title is pending**

Harry opened up his father's jewel encrusted box, one of the few things that survived the great crash and tumult of his parent's house when Voldemort had come to kill them. The box didn't contain much, just a spare parchment and quill, but the great appeal to Harry was the overall smell of the leather-bound inside: it was made up of a woodsy, shoe-cleaning smell. Harry suspected this was the scent that clung daily to his father and every time he took a deep whiff of the box, he felt a warming sensation stir deeply in the bottom of his heart. He was feeling that sensation right now, but it wasn't only because he had just emptied out the contents and sniffed the inside of the box—it was also because he was thinking of his crush. Perhaps "crush" was too indelicate a word, but he couldn't say "lover" without it sounding awkward and "girlfriend" wasn't even a possibility...yet. Funny how optimistic Harry became when it came to love. He wasn't good at achieving it, nor did he have any remote experience of it, but still he couldn't help but to hope. Maybe it was from his father that he gained such optimism—maybe it was through the fact that his father had married the only woman that loathed him as much as he loved her that sprung such confidence for the future. Whatever the reason, he couldn't frown whenever he thought of her...whenever he thought of Hermione...

* * *

Ron was setting the table when the front door of the flat slammed open. He smiled as he heard the clomping of high heels hit the stone floor with an angry rapidity and he wondered what had happened today to anger his girlfriend.

"Hey, 'Mione," said Ron as she clambered into the small kitchen, pulling out a chair and throwing it back with a grunt. He walked over as she sat down, bending over to peck a kiss on her sweaty cheek. He knew she hated wearing high heels but, as it was required of her job, she had to suffer through the aches and pains they caused her and often times than not, she came over aggravated and sweaty.

"Hi, Ron," she sighed. She leaned over to carelessly undo the ties that held the shoes to her feet and thrust them, banging, into the broom cupboard.

"So..." mused Ron, grabbing two bowls laden with stew and handing one to her; with the other, he sat down next to her.

Hermione sighed again. She unlatched the bun holding her big clumps of curly brown hair so that it came tumbling down and landed swiftly on her shoulders, sticky from sweat. "Guess who they hired to be my boss?" she asked, whilst fiddling with her stew.

Ron gasped. "No, not Malfoy!"

Hermione grimly nodded. There was a silence as she stirred the remnants of stew around in the bowl. Then, Ron lightly put his long, thin hand over her delicate one, whispering, "It's okay, 'Mione, we'll figure something out."

Hermione nodded again. Ron could see tears splashing into the stew and he cupped her hand in his, squeezing reassuringly.

"It'll be okay, 'Mione. It'll be okay."

* * *

Draco admired himself as he gazed upon his reflection in a nearby store's window. He was wearing a Muggle suit, dark green, and he couldn't help stare at how massive it made his shoulders and chest. There was also a definitive quality to the suit that made him want to arch his back, thus giving off the illusion of him being worthy of great height—not that, of course, being 6'1" wasn't tall; it just made him taller. And leaner. Oh, yes, he resembled much of an Olympic swimmer had one been adorned in a suit and he imagined the great six-pack that awaited right beneath the layers of clothes...no, he didn't _imagine_ there being a six-pack; there already _was_ a six-pack, one he had worked on achieving right after he had finished with Hogwarts. One six-pack that many girls had seen, whether it be under the glamorous beach sun in Spain—where he had worked before moving back to England—or in the cool chill of night, right before getting in bed with him and having an experience he knew they would NEVER forget. (Not to say that he didn't forget—the girls had been too many to count and not one, although proving far more than satisfactory, had never brought him quite to the home base he had intended to hit with a grand slam.)

He shook off the thoughts, and skirted up the streets of London with a particular ease—some might say "swagger"—which caused many passersby to glance at him with wonder, love, and jealousy. He made it to a grand tall building before stopping and entering it, heading straight towards the Lobby elevator, having no need to sign in with such a familiar and remember-able face. He pushed the button that led to the seventeenth floor and waited as it brought him up. On the fifth floor, he was met with a stunning blonde woman, whom he had smiled at, and had left at the tenth, her before beautiful, ordinate dress crumpled slightly in the most not-appropriate places. It was finally when the elevator dinged out to tell Draco he had arrived at the seventeenth floor, did he cast away his smirk for having smouldered the woman, and replaced his poker-business face and strutted out into the semi-lit hall. He walked with a more-ascertained swagger, opening the fifth door of the hallway labeled "Hkc Publishing" (**Name might change**).

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy," said an older-looking man with glasses tucked at the tip of his nose. He took out one gnarled hand and Draco shook it with appropriate gust. "Please, if you will follow me."

Draco knew this man to be no other than Mr. Wilkins, the very man he would be replacing as top editor of the Hkc Publishing Co. He followed the old man past the secretarial desk, where upon sat a mousy, quirky young lad, and into the the swinging door on the right. He passed several offices and a meeting room—all of which looked to be preoccupied. At last, they made it to a grand oak door, which Mr. Wilkins opened, ushering Draco inside. It was a big office space: one long, meager desk stood facing the door and back to the long glass window, which offered a spectacular view of London's sprawling city, Big Ben standing majestically behind it all. An old-fashioned clock sat on the right side of the room; below that an Hkc Publishing Co. calender. On the left stood a huge, clean white board—probably just erased of all of Mr. Wilkins' notes. One comfy, black chair sat behind the empty wooden desk and Draco knew that he was going to enjoy this job.

"I'll just round up the staff and have them situated in the meeting room," said Mr. Wilkins and he left Draco to his own devices, closing the grand oak door softly.

Draco smiled, stretching his back and then walking over to stare down at the busy London streets, tossing his fashionable handbag down on his new swishy chair. He spotted a bakery across the street of his building and beyond that lay a tiny bookstore, an organic grocery store—which he thought looked magically extended and supposed it contained an apothecary for potion masters—a public fountain, and a night bar. _Not bad_, he thought. _I could get used to this._

It was ten minutes until Mr. Wilkins fetched him, saying everyone was ready in the meeting room. Draco grabbed his handbag, following the old man to the large room, where he was met with a welcoming cake sitting atop the middle of the long meeting table and almost every seat around it occupied by Draco's new employees. Draco's eyes scanned the length of the table, noting with pleasure that most of the people were females, all of whom were smiling up at him—some even bashing their eyelashes. He winked at them, and went around to shake everyone's hand, noting one surly-looking man gripped a his hand tighter than was to be expected. As he got settled into the head chair, taking a piece of cake, the meeting room door opened and a young woman entered. She looked frazzled, her eyebrows pinched in worry and her cheeks burnt red as she muttered a tiny apology, scrambling to the only empty chair.

Draco froze, stunned. He would recognize that 5'2" brunette anywhere: Hermione Jean Granger. She changed from the last time he saw her—however, that was when she was all beat up and bruised, stark thin and depressed from the raging war Voldemort had caused before he was killed by Harry Potter; she was still thin, but not starved and her skin was more creamy and smooth than ever before. Her hair was pulled back into a fashionable bun so it wouldn't become a burden as she bent over the many manuscripts he knew she would be editing and her creamy brown eyes were surrounded by a thick batch of mascara-defining eyelashes. Her forehead was still as prominent and large as ever and tiny hints of freckles latched upon the edge of her nose, but other than that, Draco was surprised at how beautiful she had turned out to be. He almost forgot about the younger Hermione, until she caught his eye and froze, until when he smiled at her did she glare, her eyes hard as stone.

Draco smirked; oh no, perhaps her looks had changed but her attitude hadn't. She was still a stuck-up, annoying, know-it-all prat. She probably still thought he was a supporter of the Dark Arts—perhaps even an aspiring Dark Lord. He almost snorted into the cake; what a ridiculous idea that was. He was ambitious—every Slytherin was—but he didn't wish to rule the world. Sometimes Muggles were useless and got in the way, but he didn't want to diminish such a race—not when he had learnt recently that it was through them that he had maintained such great ancestral fame, thus securing the Malfoy Mansion he had grown up in as a child and now lived in. House elves though...they did make good slaves. And Draco _hated _cleaning.

After Mr. Wilkins had left and Draco had given a speech of what he expected in the workplace now that he was here, people began to sift out the meeting room, going back to their work. Hermione was the first to leave; Draco had noted that she wasn't on friendly terms with any of her employees, probably because she thought she was intellectually superior to them all. Draco laughed and suspected that it was probably true—only now she had to take him into account—the account in which consisted of him being her boss. Boss to Hermione Granger...Draco laughed. He would no doubt enjoy this job.


End file.
